Obvious Facts
by hifunctioning
Summary: John and Sherlock continue to adjust to post-post-Reichenbach life. Sherlock is dying for a case. Lestrade gives him one, but it doesn't work out quite right. No slash though squinting is easy . TRIGGER WARNING: Child sexual and physical abuse discussed not graphic .
1. Chapter 1

TRIGGER WARNING - Child sexual abuse referenced (not graphic). Sherlock's response is less than sensitive because, well, Sherlock. Child physical abuse discussed (the same as in my fic "Let Me Read You").

I'm not happy with the way that chapters 1-5 are John's POV and only chapter 6 is Sherlock's. That seems wrong. But it made sense to me that way. So I just couldn't figure out what to do about that. If any reader has a suggestion, I'd like to hear it.

All my fics stand alone, but some are linked. This one follows "Reassembly Required" chronologically, and also references some backstory that I wrote in "Let Me Read You." In a fit of anal-retentiveness, I made an index of all my fics so you can see how they all fit chronologically, if you care. It's in my profile.

The case is based on "The Boscombe Valley Mystery," which contains these Holmes quotes:

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." (Which is something BBC Sherlock would totally say.)

"Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'" (Which is something BBC Sherlock would never ever say.)

* * *

"No interviews, and don't call again," John said – practically shouted – and slammed his mobile down on the coffee table.

Sherlock, slumped in his armchair, looked up from his laptop (technically John's laptop) with a sour expression.

"Bloody parasites," John grumbled.

The reporters had started buzzing about when Sherlock first came back – the back-from-the-dead angle was certainly sensationalistic enough to get their attention – but Lestrade's reinstatement and the accompanying controversy had put the final crescendo on the story. Suddenly he was a hero again, London's own mysterious protector, and Moriarty was the horrible dragon he'd vanquished. Of course the reporters had magically forgotten how they had pilloried his memory in the weeks following his death, but John hadn't. He remembered standing in line at Tesco's, staring at Sherlock's face – a particularly nasty, distorted version of it – on the cover of The Sun, under white block letters spelling _FAKE. _Sherlock's voice had rumbled through him, as clearly as if he was holding the mobile to his ear even then: _The newspapers were right all along... Tell anyone who'll listen… _John had told no one, but it hadn't mattered, the newspapers had their story, it was clear as day to them, as plain and unambiguous as a wrist with no pulse, and there was nothing John could do to stop it, just as there had been nothing he could do to stop a black silhouette from spreading its arms and taking that step and falling and falling until it was just a rag doll on the sidewalk, and there ought to have been something John could do because he was a doctor, wasn't he, and he'd saved lives, a lot of them, and what good was that if he couldn't save the life he valued the most, but he was useless, there was nothing left but pale, empty eyes and blood. He had dropped his shopping on the floor and fled the store to vomit in a nearby alley.

And now the newspapers wanted to talk to him.

"Sherlock, give me my laptop."

"Use mine."

"I don't want yours, I want mine. You use yours."

"It's in my bedroom."

"Well, I don't want to go to your bedroom either. And I'm the one who got shot in the leg. So give me my sodding laptop."

Sherlock made a noise not unlike a dog being deprived of a prized bone, but he handed over the computer. John logged into his email and groaned. All the new messages, except one concerning an opportunity to enlarge his penis and another regarding the plight of certain members of the Nigerian ruling class, were from reporters.

"John. I need a case."

"I know."

"_John._" His voice was insistent, but quieter, almost pleading. John looked up and realized with a start that while he'd been ranting at and about reporters all morning, Sherlock had been quietly unraveling, struggling with uncharacteristic resolve to hold it together.

"I know," he said softly. "We'll get you one." He had no idea how. There'd been nothing from the Yard in weeks. When the Chief Superintendent had found out Dimmock was giving Sherlock cold cases, he'd put a stop to that, in no uncertain terms. And the private cases were not coming.

"You used to bring me cases," Sherlock said, his voice still quiet but a bit accusatory.

"I'm trying," John answered, and he had been. Sanitizing their adventures on the run had been a challenge, but he'd managed to get a few stories up on the blog. All it seemed to do was titillate the media, however. Not inspire clients.

"That's not good enough," Sherlock snapped, baring his teeth. "Bring me a case."

John bristled. "I'm not your dog. I don't just run off and fetch things for you when you whistle. You're the bloody genius detective, you get your own cases. In fact, why don't you do some interviews with those vultures? Get yourself a nice spread in the Daily Mail. _What does Sherlock Holmes eat for breakfast? Nothing! He doesn't eat, isn't that marvelous? See Page 17 for our exclusive Sherlock Holmes Diet, the pounds will fall away! Where does Sherlock Holmes do his shopping? Nowhere! He has other people do it for him, how fantastic! What sort of girls does he fancy? What product does he use in his gorgeous hair? How does he sharpen his cheekbones?..."_

"Shut up, John," Sherlock snarled, stalking to the kitchen, "you have made your point and you're not clever."

John bit the inside of his cheek and bent over his laptop again, sorting through his emails and deleting the interview requests. He opened a few. He hadn't been serious, a moment ago, but he realized he didn't actually have any better ideas.

"You know…" he began.

"No!" Sherlock yelled from the kitchen.

"Not the Daily Mail, obviously. But maybe one of these better ones…? I hate them as much as you, very possibly more. But if you want cases? My blog is not enough."

"Then _make_ it enough."

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock? There is nothing I can do. You need to rebuild your image. They destroyed it before, and now if you don't take control of it, they will twist it into… god knows what. You're going to have to _do_ something if you want people to come to you."

"I don't owe those people anything," Sherlock spat.

"No, you don't," John yelled. "You're you. You're brilliant. You're extraordinary. You're a bloody genius. You've got nothing to prove. You don't owe a damn thing to anyone in the world. But they don't owe you a case. If you want their cases, you're going to have to ask nicely for them."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "Ask _nicely_?"

"I mean, you're going to have to convince them they should trust you."

Sherlock laughed sharply. "No one in their right mind would trust me."

"Well, I do."

"Case in point."

"Right," John agreed ruefully. "But still, if you want them to bring you cases, you have to convince them they can trust you with their darkest secrets and deepest wounds."

"Oh for god's sake, John. Why? I solve cases. That's what I do. Must you wrap it up in all that intrigue and romance, really?"

"Yes, because that's how it is for people. Normal people."

"And you would have me put on a normal people costume and a normal people mask and do a little normal people dance so they like me?" Sherlock wiggled his fingers and hopped from foot to foot to underscore his point, his face contorted with disgust.

"Like it or not, you live in the normal people world. You have to play by our rules some of the time."

Sherlock threw him a reproachful look. "You're supposed to handle that."

"Well, I can only do so much."

"Do it for me," Sherlock commanded.

"Do what?"

Sherlock sighed wearily. "The interviews. The media. Talk to them. Rebuild my image."

"Oh lovely, not this rubbish again._ Tell anyone who will listen_… isn't that what you said?"

Sherlock's face clouded.

"You know, I'm not your mouthpiece. You asked me to tell everyone you were a fraud, it was your dying wish for Christ's sake, and I didn't do it. Couldn't do it. Never considered it for a moment, actually. Not that it made the slightest bit of difference. Do you realize that, by the way? The job was done. Moriarty had already made the story so simple, so much easier to believe than the truth. So you put me through all of that, for what? So that I could convince the world that you were a liar? And it turned out to be completely unnecessary." John laughed humorlessly.

"Wrong, I needed you to believe it so Moriarty's people would believe it. And _not_ _kill_ you."

"Well, I believed it all right. And now you want me to go out there and tell those wazzocks all about it, how you duped me right along with everyone else? Just don't ask me, after everything else, to humiliate myself in front of them. That's one thing you can do for yourself."

"No."


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello!"

John sighed with relief to hear Lestrade's cheery voice on the other end of the phone. "You sound like you're in a good mood."

"Nice to be back at work, I must say. It's been a long time. How can I help you?"

"I hope you're not just saying that, Greg. I do need your help."

"What's up?" John could almost hear the DI straighten up. He was a good man, and a good cop (would've made a good soldier as well), and John was right glad to have him back.

"It's Sherlock. He's bored. You know how he… it's getting bad. Please tell me you've got a case for him. Don't make me call that berk Dimmock."

Lestrade sighed. "Well, I'm on my way to a body right now, but it's not up to his standards, we've got a strong suspect already…"

"That's fine, totally fine. I'm desperate, mate."

"Everyone is watching me now. The last thing I need is Sherlock Holmes prancing in and getting me fired."

"I know, Greg. I promise he'll behave."

"And see that he doesn't abuse my people. I have to work with them everyday, you know. That_ includes_ Anderson. And John, you behave too."

"Me?"

"Have you forgotten you chinned my boss?"

"Ah, well, I…. That's true. But the charges have been dismissed."

"And yet, oddly enough, he still remembers the incident. It's really not a wise career move for me to be talking to you at all, much less inviting you to a crime scene."

"You have my word, we'll both be absolute angels."

"Don't make promises you can't keep. But alright. I'll text him now."

"I owe you, Greg."

The DI sighed. "Who's counting?" he asked, and hung up.

John closed his mobile with a smile and turned around to walk back to the flat.

Sherlock was just stepping out the door as he got there. "Brilliant, John!" he called, a devilish grin on his face. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and a man's been bludgeoned to death in Boscombe Park!" He raised his hand with a flourish and a cab immediately pulled to the kerb. John could never get a cab that quickly. One of the many benefits of being inhumanly tall, he supposed.

Sherlock had opened the door of the cab and was waiting impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet, for John to catch up. He had a while to wait, John thought, grimly observing his own slow progress down the sidewalk. He reached the cab at last, and got in, Sherlock folding himself in afterwards.

Sherlock told the cabbie an address. Then he looked out the window and said to the city rolling past, "You're getting much better."

"It certainly doesn't feel like it," John answered.

"You're twelve percent faster now than two weeks ago, and your limp is much less pronounced. Thank you for the case."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed and turned to stare at John. "Obviously you told Lestrade to give me this case. God knows I need it. It had better be good."

John tightened his grip on his cane. He knew he was playing with fire. If the case was not good – and Lestrade had already said it wasn't – it could plummet Sherlock into an even fouler mood. But Sherlock was smiling right now, for the first time in weeks. For that, this case was a risk John was more than willing to take.


	3. Chapter 3

Keeping up with Sherlock – at a dead run through the back alleys of London – had been proven as a cure for psychosomatic limps. As a medical professional, John could endorse it without reservation.

As a cure for real limps, specifically those caused by gunshot wounds, it was dubious.

It was true that just a few minutes out in the city with Sherlock seemed to do far more good than any of John's weekly physical therapy sessions, but it also seemed to do quite a bit of harm, and John could never decide where the balance fell. He erred on the side of Sherlock because he always did. Because, he'd decided, he was quite cracked in the head. It was the only explanation, really.

Was his leg really improving, though? He wanted desperately to believe it, as he pushed himself, limping along the path several paces behind Sherlock. He felt stronger. He had more stamina. He didn't take those bloody meds anymore. It was possible.

They spotted the police tape ahead and a few meters to the right of the path. The crime scene itself was hidden from view by trees and hedges, but Lestrade stepped out into the path, heading them off.

"Sherlock," he said sternly. "Listen, you will be on your best behavior. A bloody choirboy, do you get me?"

Sherlock stopped and stared Lestrade down. "I came here to solve a murder, not to sing psalms."

"I don't need you this time. If you want in on this case, it'll be on my terms. You will be respectful of everyone working here, you will not touch anything without my permission, and you will do as I say."

Sherlock's upper lip twisted, making him look like a snarling dog. "You are not my handler, Lestrade."

"No," Lestrade replied, throwing an obvious glance at John. "That's not _my_ job. But this is my crime scene. Do we understand each other?"

"I understand _you_," he sneered. "I very much doubt the reverse is true."

Lestrade seemed to take that as an acceptance of his terms, and gestured for Sherlock to duck under the police tape. John followed, with Lestrade next to him.

"Good to see you back in your element, Greg," John said warmly. "Very good. You've been missed."

"I wou-"

"Oh, what's the _freak_ doing here?" Donovan's voice rang out ahead of them. John shot Lestrade a meaningful look and hurried ahead. Sherlock was walking past her but just opening his mouth with a retort; John quickly positioned himself between them, placed a firm hand on Sherlock's arm and pushed him ahead, towards the body. Sherlock clenched his jaw and, to John's great relief, moved on.

The body lay face down in a little clearing. There had been no attempt to hide it, despite the thick foliage all around. It was an older man, late 50s or early 60s, with an expensive wool jacket and a crumbling hole where the back of his skull used to be.

"Smoker. Widower. No wife or girlfriend," Sherlock was saying, crouched down next to the body. "Occasional gambler. No occupation. Family money? I doubt it. Had a desk job for most of his life. Accountant? Lived in a sunnier climate for many years… the Middle East, no, Australia, I believe. Yes, his watch says as much. Your diagnosis, doctor?"

"Dead," John replied, dropping to his knees near the man's head. "Posterior third of the left parietal bone and left half of the occipital bone shattered by a blunt object."

"Repeated blows," Sherlock observed, hovering over John's shoulder. "Here's the initial one, don't you think?" He pointed at the bottom of the occipital bone, where the damage was not quite as sharp. John, knowing the question was rhetorical, didn't answer. "Yes, but if so, the killer was a bit shorter, the weapon had to have been angled up." He stood and swung at the air at an approximately thirty degree angle. "Awkward. But possible, depending on the weapon. Which was no more than six or so centimeters at the business end, but had to have been long enough to have force and leverage behind it. Then the victim fell and the killer struck straight down…" He bent over the body and brought his arm down repeatedly. "The victim rolled a bit to his right, and these final blows on the left finished him off." He leaned in closer. "Then the killer wiped the blood off the weapon on the victim's coat, here… And on the grass, here." He stood up again with a little bounce. "No defensive wounds. It was fast."

He stretched his arms out, wiggled his fingers and cracked his knuckles, glancing quickly all around him with bright, almost feverish eyes.

"We've got a suspect…" Lestrade volunteered.

"Good for you," Sherlock snapped. "In a moment, I'll tell you if you've got a murderer."

He dropped back down to his knees and began crawling on all fours around the clearing. Donovan snickered and started to whisper something to Anderson, but John stepped in front of her and silenced her with a glare he had once reserved for disrespectful cadets. It was still effective. She glowered back at him but said nothing. Then she turned toward Sherlock and called out, "You won't find any footprints. We've looked."

"On the contrary, Donovan, this clearing is covered with footprints. You might as well have paraded an entire football team through here. Damn it, Lestrade! It would have been so simple if you'd let me look at it before you all mucked it up." His concentric circles had taken him to the edge of the clearing, where there was an opening between two buckthorns. "There!" he breathed in relief. "Bicycle tire."

"That would be James McCarthy," Lestrade began. "As I was trying to tell you…"

"Shut up, I didn't ask."

Lestrade shot John a warning look, but he was already crossing the clearing to drop down by Sherlock's side. He positioned his body to block the Yarders' view and rested a hand lightly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey," he murmured. "Be good and keep the case. Ok?"

Sherlock turned his head to meet John's eyes and blinked slowly. "Hm," he replied, pursing his lips, and bent down to scrutinize the bike track more closely.

It was an answer. John patted Sherlock's shoulder and stood up. His leg screamed in protest.

Sherlock finished crawling round the perimeter of the clearing and began poking around in the bushes beyond. After some time John heard a "ha!" of triumph. He and Lestrade hurried into the foliage, where they found Sherlock, standing between a hedge and an elm tree, pointing down at a patch of grass that looked to John like every other patch of grass.

"Your suspect's shoe size?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I don't know," Lestrade replied.

Sherlock sighed deeply and looked up at the tree branches above him as if they could commiserate. "Of course you don't. Why would a Scotland Yard detective ever want to know something so trivial as the suspect's shoe size?"

"We've only just arrested him. He hasn't even been questioned yet."

"You don't need to question him to look at his feet. So it's a man, then." Sherlock sighed again and asked, as if addressing a barely verbal child, "Does he have very small feet?"

"I have no idea. I haven't even seen him."

"Alright. Well, if you find that he wears size five shoes, or six in women's, that would be very interesting."

"I'll be sure to let you know."

"And if you learn that he was riding two bicycles at once, that would also be fascinating."

"How's that?"

"Someone stopped here, dismounted their bicycle, and leaned it… here, up against this hedge. The handle bar broke this twig, you see? No, of course you don't. And the tire track here is obviously completely different from the one on the other side of the clearing."

"I can't see a thing," Lestrade said. "I know you see it, but that's useless before a jury."

"That's your problem, not mine," Sherlock snapped. "I don't build cases, I solve them."

"So what do you suppose the murder weapon was?" Sherlock and John both swung round in unison to see Anderson peering over the hedge and smiling innocently at them. John's hand shot out, almost instinctively, to touch Sherlock's arm in warning. Sherlock clenched his jaw and said nothing.

"A blunt object, did you say?" Anderson continued. Sherlock gave John a sidelong look, simultaneously lethal and pleading. John shook his head.

"What could it be, what could it be?" Anderson steepled his gloved fingers in front of his face, mocking Sherlock's habit. John began to seethe but tried to stay focused on keeping Sherlock calm. "Let's see… The butt of a rifle? You don't see too many people walking round with those in Boscombe Park, do you? How about a hammer? Or an axe? Same problem, I suppose. I know! A cane!" He glanced over at John. "No, no, I really don't think someone using a cane would've been able to strike this man down." Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously, and John clenched his left fist, stretched his fingers, clenched them again. "Oh, I've got it all wrong," Anderson continued amiably. "It's so_ obvious. _Of course it's a rock!" He pointed at the ground just on the other side of the hedge, on the inside of the clearing. "Like that one there, that the great Sherlock Holmes just sniffed right past."

All three men stepped back into the clearing, Lestrade crouching down to examine the rock, John looking on curiously, Sherlock standing back with his arms crossed and nose in the air.

"Look, Detective Inspector," Anderson said excitedly, pointing at a roughly triangular rock a little bigger than a man's fist. "The point of it is just a perfect fit for the skull fractures."

"It's not," Sherlock interjected. "Point's too big, rock's too small."

"And you can see, the grass underneath it is damper and less squished down than under the other rocks. Because it was placed here more recently. By the murderer."

"Because it was knocked over clumsily. By the pillocks of Scotland Yard."

"And what is it doing tucked under this hedge anyway?"

"It's being a _rock_. In a _park_. What else would it be doing? Composing a sonnet? Contemplating life's great mysteries?"

"Someone was trying to hide it, that's what."

"Alright," Lestrade said, standing up. "That's enough. Bag it."

"Happy to, Detective Inspector!" Anderson picked the rock up with a smirk and held it in front of Sherlock's face. "Well. Looks like we've got a corpse, a suspect, and a weapon. Can't imagine what we'd need you for. Why don't you run along and find someplace you can be useful. Like a circus, you freak. Maybe they'd want you as an acrobat, since jumping off buildings seems to be the only thing you're good for."

"_Anderson!_" Lestrade shouted. "Shut up and do your fucking job!"

Anderson turned away to get an evidence bag, but met Donovan's eyes on the way, and they both burst out laughing.

"I swear to God," Lestrade hissed. "I don't know whether I work at Scotland Yard or a bloody reform school. You both can either grow up or go…"

John had already grabbed Sherlock's arm and was hurrying him back to the path, Lestrade's voice receding in the background.

"Jesus," John breathed once they were out of range. "Jesus God, what a wanker. I had forgotten." He turned to watch Sherlock, who was gazing impassively upon a territorial dispute between two crows. "Well done, Sherlock. Amazing restraint."

"Don't patronize me," Sherlock snapped.

"I'm not," John replied with a shrug. "I'm being serious. I don't have any clever insults or creepy deductions about his sexual habits, but another minute of that and I would've broken his nose. Which would have been worse, actually. So good on you."

Sherlock looked sideways at John and the left side of his mouth quirked up into a smile. "You see, you underestimate me."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"Sherlock! John!" They both turned to see Lestrade approaching from the clearing. "Listen, I'm… Well, Sherlock, you didn't entirely hold up your end of the deal, but Anderson went beyond the pale and I apologize."

"I assure you he didn't do any damage," Sherlock replied.

"Not the point. Just accept my apology and let's move on."

"Fine. Accepted."

"And while we're at it, thank you for saving my life."

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise; John barely caught it and doubted that Lestrade had seen it at all. "You're welcome," he replied stiffly.

"And also, fuck you for ruining it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're welcome to that too."

"I honestly don't know whether to feel hatred or gratitude."

"Why don't you go with both, like you always have before?"

Lestrade smiled wryly and nodded. "I guess I will. And thank you for your testimony at my hearing." John grinned smugly and elbowed Sherlock in the side. That testimony would have been a train wreck if John hadn't insisted on coaching Sherlock through it beforehand. ("We are not having a repeat of the Moriarty trial," John had barked. "You will be polite and respectful and law-abiding and intelligent, but _not _cleverand _not_, under any circumstances, yourself.")

"It was essential, actually," Lestrade continued. "I wouldn't be back here without you. Although of course I wouldn't have been suspended without you either."

"Hm. Don't mention it. Are we done?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Your, uh…" Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Your divorce. Unfortunate."

"Ah. Yes." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well, you were right. And there was another one besides the PE teacher."

"Librarian."

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, that's the one."

"I don't know what you saw in her anyway. She… she wasn't appropriate for you."

"You never met her, Sherlock."

"I didn't need to."

"Right." He cleared his throat again, shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, and rocked back on his heels. "So the suspect?"

"Your petite cyclist, yes."

"Donovan's on her way to question him now. His name's James McCarthy, and that man with three-quarters of a skull is his father, Charles McCarthy. They live here in Boscombe Hill. This morning, Charles went for a walk along this path. Shortly afterward, James came out for a bike ride. His statement to the responding officers was that he ran into his father and stopped to talk with him, there in the clearing. They argued. And we do have a witness, a jogger, who heard them arguing and saw James raise his hand. James says that after this heated argument, he got back on his bike and continued his ride, trying to blow off some steam. On his way back, he thought it was odd he hadn't seen his dad on the path, so he looked in on the clearing and found the body. Or so he claims. He called 999 immediately. Arresting officers reported blood on his arms and chest. When they informed him he was under arrest, he said, 'I deserve that.'"

John's heart sank. It was a bad case after all. Anderson was right; Sherlock wasn't needed here, and his boredom was going to take a dive into something much more dangerous.

"So you think you're done?" Sherlock asked, tapping away on his mobile.

"Not done, but it shouldn't be long," the DI replied. "Rather obvious, don't you think?"

"There is nothing as deceptive as an obvious fact, Lestrade. Student at London School of Economics, nineteen years old, and judging from this photo, about the same height his father and quite unlikely to have size five feet. You have a suspect, but you don't have a murderer."

"Then find me one." Lestrade pulled a pack of Mayfairs out of his pocket and shook one out. He gave John a sheepish look as he lit the cigarette, and then shot Sherlock an apologetic one as he took his first drag. Sherlock said nothing, but leaned over to inhale the secondhand smoke.

"You're disgusting," John grumbled. "Not you," he added quickly to Lestrade.

The DI shrugged. "It is disgusting." He blew another long stream of smoke in Sherlock's direction. "I was doing so well, too. Should never have started back up. But that was around the time I lost my job and a colleague of mine flung himself off the roof of St. Bart's. Upsetting events."

"I think I recall that," John remarked dryly. "It was a difficult period, wasn't it?"

"Very. You can't blame a man for turning to his vices in such a dark time."

"No, you can't. Me, I drank."

"Did you?"

"Whiskey. Loads of it." John shook his head mournfully. "My dad would've been proud. I was a mess, honestly."

"Well, I can't judge you, mate. I was at the pub every night nursing a pint. Why shouldn't I? I had no job to go to in the morning."

"No one to go home to in the evening."

"That's sad. That is a sad, sad tale you've told me."

"No sadder than yours, Greg."

"Infantile drama queens!" Sherlock spat, spinning around and stalking down the path away from the crime scene. "I should've let Moriarty have the both of you!" he shouted over his shoulder.

John and Lestrade looked at each other and snorted with laughter.

"I missed the crazy tosser," Lestrade admitted with a chuckle. "Is he doing alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine."

"And you, are you alright?"

"Leg could be better. But it's improving. And I'd rather be alive with one leg than dead with two. I also find the second gunshot wound is much easier to handle than the first."

"Good to know."

"And you?"

"Well, like he said, divorced. That wasn't fun. But it's done and over and for the best, really."

"You can do better, I have no doubt."

"Thanks, mate." Lestrade looked down the path at the tall dark figure striding away. "Is he alright, really?"

"Yeah." John liked Lestrade a great deal, but there was no way he was going to tell him about the insomnia (even worse than before, though that shouldn't have been possible), the occasional nightmares (hoarse, wordless shouts and sometimes cold sweats before John could rush in and wake him), the clinginess (wanting John to go everywhere with him now, anxious when they were apart). John trusted Lestrade, but there was no way he was going to tell an officer of Scotland Yard what Sherlock had done while he was dead – the people he'd killed and the people he'd tortured, the things John knew and the things he suspected, and the things that made Sherlock wake up with a choked gasp and a racing pulse and wide, blank eyes. He wasn't going to tell Lestrade that he knew when Sherlock's pulse was racing and when it was normal and when it was slow because he checked it every single time he found Sherlock asleep and sometimes, compulsively, when Sherlock was awake. And how those times, Sherlock just stared at him silently while he did it, and how occasionally it was Sherlock who broke the stare and looked away.

"He's good if he's got a case. Can he keep this one?"

Lestrade dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it under his shoe. "I owe him more than a case, I reckon," he replied. "We'll see what we've got from this suspect and I'll be in touch." They shook hands and John hurried down the path. Sherlock had already vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

That afternoon and evening, Sherlock disappeared to skulk and snoop and research. In the meantime, he instructed John to canvas the park and surrounding sidewalks. The neighborhood of Boscombe Hill – not ostentatious, not old money, but decidedly comfortable with a sprinkling of posh – was well suited to his interviewing skills. Almost everyone who was out and about was a mother, a nanny, or an elderly person who was happy to have someone to talk to.

In the cab, John reported back:

Charles McCarthy kept to himself and no one knew much about him. His son James was a nice enough chap, often seen riding through the neighborhood or the park with Alyssa Turner.

Some people knew about the Turners, and if they did, the conversation inevitably went there when the McCarthys were mentioned.

Joanne Turner was an Australian businesswoman who'd moved to Boscombe Hill about fifteen years ago. Recently divorced, she'd come here alone with her young daughter, Alyssa and bought a house near the park. ("I had to sit through an entire lecture on the history of Edwardian architecture for this tidbit, Sherlock," John grumbled. "I hope you appreciate that." Sherlock clearly did not.) She was outgoing and got to know some of the neighbors. But the interesting thing was, McCarthy showed up shortly after that, a widower with his young son in tow. People thought they had known each other in Sydney, though no one really knew where that came from. But they certainly knew each other well. Turner – who must have done quite well for herself in Australia – actually bought McCarthy a house in Boscombe Hill. ("Well. The only reason I know that is that my realtor handled that sale, and she said it was just odd, the way Turner bought the house like you'd buy lunch for your friend," a neighbor had confided in John as he pushed one of her twins on the swing.) So James and Alyssa had grown up together, and anyone who knew the two families assumed that Mr. McCarthy and Ms. Turner had a rather unusual but very close friendship.

"Alyssa rides her bike in the park too, you said? What kind?"

"Don't know. There's more… Joanne Turner is ill. Terminal cancer, apparently. They say she doesn't have long. Do you think, if Charles was in her will, wouldn't James have a motive…?"

Sherlock gave John an indulgent smile. "Leave the deductions to me."

* * *

Lestrade texted first thing the next morning. He had a warrant to search the McCarthy's house, and Sherlock could come along if he solemnly swore not to touch anything.

"_Anything,_" Lestrade repeated outside the house, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for emphasis.

Sherlock stared him down silently. John bit his cheek anxiously. Sherlock was enduring a lot of orders lately. John wasn't sure exactly how much pressure could build up before Sherlock would blow.

"Anderson's not here," Lestrade added, and John exhaled in relief.

There was nothing in the house of any interest, as far as John could see. He stood by, watching Sherlock hover around the police like a hungry hyena just outside the lion pride, ready to rush in and grab a mouthful of zebra at the first opportunity. John kept his hands free and ready to reach for Sherlock's arm if he needed to.

Lestrade had briefed them already on Donovan's interview of James McCarthy. Nothing much to add to his initial statement. He swore he didn't do it. The argument had been stupid, he said. His father was always trying to manage his life, he was sick of it, and that's why he'd raised his voice, and yes, his hand, but he did not hit him, never would have, and most certainly did not kill him. He'd said things he regretted. He was the only thing his father cared about in the world, and he'd been a terrible son, and he had some karma coming to him for that, but he would never have hurt his father intentionally, would never have done that. He was exactly the same height as Charles McCarthy, and wore size seven shoes.

"I think that's it, sir," Donovan said with a shrug as the team finished searching McCarthy's study.

Sherlock snorted.

"We've found nothing useful," Lestrade said in exasperation.

"Maybe there is nothing useful," Donovan answered.

"Nothing you know how to use, apparently," Sherlock offered.

"Alright," Lestrade said, turning to face him. "Go on then." Donovan crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

Sherlock headed directly for a wood panel on the wall behind the desk, identical to every other panel. Except, John noticed only now, the polish was worn down, ever so slightly, on the lower right corner of the beveled edge. Sherlock pressed firmly on that spot and the panel swung open, revealing a safe.

John let out a low whistle.

"I'll get a safecracker down here…" Donovan was saying to Lestrade, but Sherlock was already working on the combination.

On the second try, there was a click, and Sherlock opened the door with a flick of his wrist. He reached for the stack of files inside, but John coughed, once and very loudly, and Sherlock froze. Lestrade was there already, grabbing the files and taking them to the desk, and the look on Sherlock's face broke John's heart.

Sherlock, John, and Donovan all leaned over Lestrade's shoulder as he poured over the files. They were accounting printouts. Several hundred pages.

"It's in dollars," Sherlock said. "They're from his time in Australia."

"He lived in America too, you know," Donovan pointed out.

"Yes, of course I know that, but look at the font and the ink, this clearly matches up with the time when he was in Australia."

"Well," Lestrade said with a sigh. "We're going to need an expert on this. It means nothing to me."

"You don't need an expert, you have me," Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade frowned. "Five minutes," he grunted, and stepped aside so Sherlock could pour over the ledgers.

John looked on, but they meant nothing to him either. He never ceased to be amazed by Sherlock's knowledge of arcane and seemingly random subjects, but he had never known the man to have any prowess in complex accounting. Quite the opposite, knowing the way bills got paid – or didn't – on Baker Street.

"That's enough," Lestrade announced when Sherlock had flipped through the last page, eleven minutes later. Sherlock reluctantly stepped away.

"Whatever it is, it was important to him," Lestrade continued, carefully bagging the file. "What was the code anyway?"

"His son was the only thing he cared about. And he was an accountant, he lived in a world of numbers. James' birthdate, with each pair of digits added together. Ridiculously simple. As I said, you don't need experts when you have me."

"Aren't you going to tell him about Joanne Turner?" John asked as they walked away from the McCarthys' house.

"What about her?"

"Everything. Her illness. The house. Their friendship."

"They weren't friends."

"What? Why not?"

"There's not a single photograph in the entire house of either of the Turners. No momento that would indicate they exist. The only photographs in the house are of James."

"So he wasn't a sentimental man. Doesn't mean he couldn't have friends. You don't have any pictures of me."

"We're not raising our children together."

John blinked mutely at the absolutely surreal image that had just blossomed in his head.

"It was a business relationship," Sherlock continued.

"What business? Where are we going?" Sherlock had suddenly turned away from the main road and back towards the park.

"To ask Joanne Turner that very question."


	5. Chapter 5

The bicyclist coasted down the sidewalk toward them. John wasn't watching her but Sherlock, noticing the barely perceptible movements of his eyes taking in the width of the handlebars, the height of the seat, the shape of the tread on the tires, the U-lock clipped to her messenger bag, and only then flicked up to the face of the young woman, dismounting in front of them and taking off her helmet. Her straight brown hair was cut in a chic, asymmetrical style that framed her wide, dark eyes.

"Alyssa Turner?" Sherlock said in his official business voice.

"Are you detectives?" she asked wearily. "They've already been here. I've told them everything."

"But you didn't tell them you rode your bike through Boscombe Park when Charles McCarthy was murdered."

The woman froze and met Sherlock's unwavering stare. John noted with respect that she held it longer than most before blinking. "No. I rode my bike to the library that day."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Really? Three witnesses swear they saw you riding along the path that passes the pool."

Alyssa turned away and quickly punched a code into a covered keypad next to the gate. John didn't catch a single number, but he knew Sherlock had already committed the code to memory. The young woman pushed the gate open and hurried through with her bike, trying to slam it shut behind her, but Sherlock caught it and stepped into the yard, John on his heels.

"You probably didn't mean to follow James," Sherlock continued, having come up alongside her in a single stride. John strained to catch up, cursing his limp. "It was just coincidence that you set off on your ride soon after him. But when you heard him arguing with his father, you stopped to eavesdrop."

Alyssa turned to walk her bike around the side of the house. She was going as fast as she could without breaking into a run, and John felt a pang of sympathy. It was like watching a mouse being cornered by a very deliberate cat.

"You hid between a hedge and an elm tree next to the pond, leaning your bike against the hedge." Sherlock swung his body in front of her, blocking her path with a single step. "What did you hear?" he hissed.

"You're making it all up," she whispered, and dodged right, then left, trying to get past him. It was futile, and she looked very much like that frightened mouse.

"James Turner is in a cell," Sherlock snapped. "and you have information. Are you protecting him or framing him?"

The woman clenched her jaw and winced, and Sherlock, like any predator glimpsing a sign of weakness, went in for the kill. "You're letting James take the fall for what–"

"Stop!" Alyssa interrupted, her voice broken and panicked. Sherlock relaxed, a cat with his paw firmly pinning the mouse's tail. "Stop," she said again, quieter but no less desperate. "Let's do this inside. Please."

They followed Alyssa through the back door, into a mudroom where she left her bike, and then into the kitchen where Sherlock pulled out a chair from the table, glared at John, and sternly jerked his chin toward the chair, commanding him to sit. Although John objected to being ordered about like a dog, he had to admit his leg was beginning to throb insistently. He sank into the chair while the other two remained standing; Alyssa looking very small in the corner where the countertops met, Sherlock casually leaning against the table next to John.

Finally Alyssa spoke.

"Yes, I did it." Her voice cut through the silence and she flinched, as if she'd surprised herself with her words.

"With the U-lock," Sherlock added.

"Yes."

"Impressive. You would have had to hold it by the crossbar and hit him with the corner of the lock. I wouldn't have guessed a woman your size would be able to do that. You're very strong."

"I… I didn't know what I was doing. I remember the first blow brought him to his knees and then I don't know how many times I hit him. I don't know why no one heard him. Heard me. Why didn't anyone come and stop me?" She looked up with pleading, disbelieving eyes. "And then… he was dead." She turned her gaze to John, the first time she'd taken any notice of him since they'd met her. "I didn't mean to," she said urgently, as if suddenly everything depended on convincing John, "and I would never, _never_ do that to James. I wasn't going to let him go down for it. He's like my brother. Besides my mum, he's all I have. I was going to confess, I swear to God. I just needed to… there's something I need to do."

"Of course," Sherlock cut in. "But it's too late, the police already have the papers."

"Papers?"

"Don't play stupid. Yes, the papers."

Alyssa stared at him blankly. Since she didn't seem to be moving anytime soon, John cleared his throat and asked, "What papers? "

"The ledgers." Sherlock turned to face John. "In McCarthy's study. It appears he was Turner's employee in Sydney, her bookkeeper, and as such had singular access to the evidence of her criminal activities, including some rather ambitious instances of fraud, money laundering, and insider trading. It's how she made her fortune, apparently. She was never found out, which explains her generosity to the McCarthys over the years. You see, John, I told you they weren't _friends. _Alyssa must have recently learned about the blackmail, so – "

"Sherlock, _stop._" John had been watching Alyssa, her hands clenching into white-knuckled fists in front of her stomach, her eyes going wide and very still. Classic trauma response.

He got up from his chair and approached her, very slowly, staying just close enough so that he could touch her arm if he felt like that would help, but far enough that she wouldn't feel cornered.

"Alyssa," he said as softly as he could. "Alyssa, look at me." She did. "We haven't been properly introduced. My name's John Watson." She didn't reply. He continued. "That's not it at all, is it? That's not why you killed him."

"No," she breathed.

"You didn't even know about the blackmail."

"I didn't know he was… I thought he could, but I didn't know he was already…. I never thought… I should've…" Her voice trailed off.

"Alyssa. You don't have to tell us why you did it." Behind him, Sherlock grunted in disagreement, but said nothing. "We do have to call the police, though."

"You're not the police?"

"We work with the police. But no."

"I don't really like the police."

"Yeah, I can understand that. In fact, I may or may not have punched a Scotland Yard superintendent in the face not long ago."

Alyssa smiled weakly at John, then looked up at Sherlock. "You're horrible," she said in a wavering voice. "But if you want to know so badly, I'll tell you."

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something but simply nodded instead.

"I killed him because he raped me. He started when I was ten years old. He did it for five years." She exhaled suddenly, as if someone had stepped on her stomach. Then she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "I've never told anyone before. I've never told anyone! And I don't know even know who you two are."

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock answered, as if that meant anything.

"That's unfortunate," Alyssa replied flatly. "Well. Now I've told you. I didn't tell anyone, all those years, because he said if I did he'd kill me, and I half believed him. And he said it would kill her, to know what we were doing" – she made a little wordless, choking sound – "to know that her best friend was… And he said he'd go to prison for a long time, and he'd make sure that she'd go to prison for an even longer time, he said he could do that, and then I'd be alone…" She took a deep breath. "And it turns out all these years he was already blackmailing her… I know I should have told her. I know that. And now I'm the one going to prison, how about that? Turns out it's me." She seemed to be talking to herself, until she looked over at John. "I never planned to," she said urgently, locking her eyes on his again. "I heard them arguing. Charles wanted James to _marry_ me, it seemed so absurd, of course now it makes sense… With Mum dying he needed a way to leech off me. As if he hadn't… Oh God. But I didn't know, and he hasn't touched me in years, you know. It was just the way he was talking about me, like an animal or a thing… I… I reacted. I can't explain it."

"I understand," John said softly. He'd seen the way that trauma could plant landmines in a person's life like crops to be harvested far into the future, bringing forth a bounty of fear and destruction season after season, detonating randomly or regularly, but never going fallow. He knew a man, a good soldier, who calmly buried his best friend and then went home to put a bullet in his wife's head. He knew another who had tried to hold his commanding officer hostage with a hand grenade, four years after the raid that had almost taken his life. He'd never before seen a landmine actually kill the one who planted it.

John took a chance and put his hand on Alyssa's shoulder, lightly, but with that steady manner that had calmed a few soldiers teetering on the precipice of their resilience. She relaxed a little and looked up at Sherlock. "Please. Don't call them. I just need a little more time. I just need to explain to her…"

Sherlock frowned. "I solve cases," he replied. "What the police do with it is no…"

"_Sherlock!_" John interrupted sharply. Sherlock turned to look at him, eyebrows arched in surprise. "A word in private, please?" He squeezed Alyssa's shoulder and said with conviction, "It'll be ok. Give us a moment."


	6. Chapter 6

In the mudroom, Sherlock shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned back against the door jamb. He could see that this case had aroused John's sympathies to an unusual degree, but what difference did that make in the end? The case had been solved. It was tragic, of course, but weren't they all? What could John possibly need to speak to him privately about?

John stood before him, arms crossed, frowning.

"You once told me you would have killed your father if Mycroft hadn't stopped you."

"Yes…?" Sherlock replied slowly.

"She could be you."

Sherlock snorted. "She could not. For one thing, if I'd gone through with it, I'd never have been caught. I had that much sense even when I was nine."

"I think you're missing the point."

"And what might that be?"

"That girl… There but for the grace of God go I, goes you, goes anyone. You've got to help her."

"Are you serious? Would you throw James McCarthy in jail in her place?"

"Maybe he'd want to go, if he knew."

"That's really not my concern. Or yours."

John opened his mouth, closed it, and licked his lips, then repeated the routine twice more before he spoke.

"You know what my father did to me."

A chill stabbed down Sherlock's spine. Two cigarette burns on John's stomach and two on his back, a fractured fibula, and (suspected but unproven) injuries to the forehead and mandible in infancy. And worse: untold assaults that left no scars, no evidence, no proof, no data. The chill spread through his veins. What was John saying?

"Did he…"

"No. He beat the shit out of me. But not Harry. He never so much as slapped Harry. I always assumed it was because she was a girl. I never imagined how right I was about that." His face contorted into an icy, humorless smile and he took a deep breath. "He didn't beat her. He did other things to her instead." He dragged a hand over his face. "I shouldn't be telling you this. Frankly, it's none of your business, but – "

"When?" Sherlock interrupted. New data required more data.

"What?"

"When and for how long?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, does it matter? It started, same as Alyssa, it started when she was ten. But she didn't tell me about it till fifteen years later."

"You had to have known. There must have been a million signs," Sherlock's hands fluttered in the air with frustration. This was the problem with families, with relationships, with people. Why did society insist on deifying these ideas in opposition to all the evidence? What was the point, if the ones who were supposed to know and protect each other the most were so cruel and stupid? If even John, who was nearly as dim as everyone else but still had a way of seeing people, could live under the same roof with his father raping his sister and never realize…

"I was a child, Sherlock."

"And your mother?"

"She found out. I never knew how, but she did, and that's when we moved back to London to live with Gran. He'd always said if we left him he'd kill us. But he didn't. He left us alone after all."

"She left because she found out what he was doing to Harry, but she already knew what he was doing to you."

"Yes." John's voice contained a warning, but Sherlock ignored it.

"And why wasn't that enough?"

"Because I was a boy, I suppose. I was supposed to be able to take it. And I was, I did…"

"Is that supposed to be an explanation? He could have killed you, was the woman just going to wait and see how bad it would get? How stu–"

"Sherlock, if you say one word against my mother, I swear to God you will wish you never learned to speak." John's voice was low and dark and perfectly steady. Sherlock had heard that voice before, but never directed at him. He slammed his mouth shut. Then he turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

He strode through the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs. Behind him, he could hear John yelling at him to stop, but with his limp he had no chance of keeping up. Upstairs, Sherlock took note of the wear on the carpet runner and the doorknobs, and quickly zeroed in on the third door on the left. Behind that door, exactly as he expected, he found a dying woman.

"How could you not know?" he spat.

"Excuse me!" Joanne Turner sat up in bed sleepily, blinking her eyes in surprise. She was gaunt and haggard, but her voice was strong. "Who the hell are you? And what did I not know?"

"That McCarthy was raping your daughter from ages ten to fifteen."

Turner's mouth fell open with a little cry, so small it was almost a squeak. She really did not know, Sherlock thought with amazement. How horrifying, the life of an ordinary person, to walk through the world so oblivious to the information all around you, so ignorant of the signals blaring in your face that you're powerless to protect the people that matter. How can they stand it?

In the hallway, John's limping steps were approaching. He burst into the room, Alyssa following right behind, just as Sherlock had timed it.

"Alyssa," Turner gasped as her daughter came in. "Is it true? Did Charles…" Alyssa froze, then nodded helplessly and Sherlock allowed John to pull him out into the hallway as mother and daughter clutched at each other and sobbed. This was going to take forever and be terribly annoying, but it was necessary.

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked his email while he waited. It was difficult to concentrate with John standing there staring at him with eyes like poisoned daggers.

When he determined that the Turners had gone through sufficient apologizing and explaining and crying and repeating the entire cycle again, Sherlock abruptly returned to the room.

"Ms. Turner," he said. "What size shoe do you wear?"

"Again, who the hell are you, and do you mind giving us some privacy?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, investigating the murder of Charles McCarthy, this is my associate Dr. John Watson, and I do mind, as we have some urgent business to discuss." His eyes hurriedly scanned the room until they found a pair of trainers tucked under an armchair. "Ah. Five and a half. Close enough. James is the prime suspect in his father's murder and, although the evidence does not support it, knowing the British legal system, he stands a very good chance of being charged and convicted. Your daughter has suffered a great deal of trauma and stress, which probably accounts for her bizarre behavior this afternoon, when she attempted to confess to the murder of Mr. McCarthy in front of myself and Dr. Watson. Of course, that is impossible. Don't you agree?"

Turner blinked stupidly at him.

He tried again.

"Ms. Turner. I understand that you have only a few months to live, while your daughter has her entire life ahead of her."

"Yes," Turner replied, her voice threatening to break into sobs again.

"It would be a terrible shame for that life to be spent in prison."

Turner covered her mouth with her hand.

"But fortunately, that won't happen, because we both know that Alyssa could not have killed Charles McCarthy."

Turner's eyes widened. Finally catching on. "No."

"And why not?"

"Because I killed him."

Alyssa gasped and grabbed her mother's hand. "Mum! No!"

Turner's face settled into a firm expression, her mouth tightening into a grim line made more striking by her skeletal appearance. There's the ruthless businesswoman, Sherlock thought with satisfaction. This will work after all."Alyssa," she said decisively. "Honestly, it's the least I can do."

Alyssa shook her head violently. "Mum, no one will believe you. Look at you, you're sick…"

"It's improbable," Sherlock agreed, "but definitely possible. A rush of adrenaline can produce incredible, unpredictable strength. Isn't that right, John?"

John swallowed. "That is true. I can't say that Ms. Turner could _not_ have done it."

"Adrenaline," Turner repeated, nodding.

"Of course," Sherlock continued, "you hated him. He blackmailed you and lived off you like a parasite for almost two decades."

"Oh, I hated him," Turner agreed, and sounded quite sincere.

"Yesterday morning, you went for a walk in the park and came across the McCarthys, arguing."

Turner nodded hesitantly.

"Say it," Sherlock ordered.

"Yesterday morning… I… went for a walk in the park and came across the McCarthys, arguing."

"You saw James' bike leaning behind a hedge and hid behind an elm tree to listen."

"I saw James' bike leaning behind a hedge and hid behind an elm tree to listen."

"Charles wanted James to marry Alyssa. When you heard Charles talking about your daughter like chattel, it was the last straw."

"Charles… wanted James to marry Alyssa. When I heard Charles talking about my daughter like chattel, it was the last straw."

"As soon as James left, you grabbed a triangular rock and walked up behind Charles."

"As soon as James left, I grabbed a triangular rock and walked up behind Charles."

"You remember the first blow brought him to his knees. You don't remember how many times you hit him after that."

"I remember the first blow brought him to his knees. I don't remember how many times I hit him after that."

"You only remember that you looked down and realized he was dead. Then you wiped the blood off the rock on his coat and hid it under a shrub and walked home."

"I only remember that I looked down and realized he was dead. Then I wiped the blood off the rock on his coat and hid it under a shrub and walked home."

There was a silence so still, for a moment Sherlock wondered if he was the only one who was breathing. John was watching Alyssa, who was watching her mother, who was staring at Sherlock. Finally Joanne Turner closed her eyes, leaned back into her pillow, and said, "It feels good to get it off my chest. That's exactly how it happened."

Alyssa covered her face with her hands, and John, unconsciously mimicking her, did the same.

"Since it was such a relief, perhaps you should tell us again," Sherlock suggested.

Turner recited her confession twice. Then Sherlock announced, "Well, then. I think this is all sorted. I'll just call DI Lestrade."

"Sherlock and I will wait downstairs for two hours and then call DI Lestrade," John said, standing up.

Sherlock recoiled. "Half an hour," he snapped.

"One and a half," John countered.

"One," Sherlock snarled. John bowed his head at him in mock deference. "Sixty minutes," Sherlock added, and stomped out of the room and down the stairs. Behind him, he heard John's comforting murmurs.

In the kitchen, Sherlock slumped in a chair and idly scrolled through the messages on his mobile. What the hell was he going to do here for sixty minutes?

John's halting footsteps approached until he finally appeared in the kitchen and sat – collapsed, really – into the chair he had occupied earlier. He looked exhausted. His leg was bothering him today more than it had in some time. Of course, Sherlock realized with a twinge of anger, all that walking about and interviewing neighbors, he wasn't up to that. He should have said no. Sherlock turned his focus from John's leg to his face to scowl at him, but saw another scowl already there.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm ready for my lecture," he said, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. "What is it this time?"

"First of all, announcing to a mother that her child has been sexually abused for years right under her nose, without first discussing it with the child, is not ok. Extremely not ok. Regardless of the result. Secondly, coercing a false confession from someone on their deathbed – from anyone, actually – is also extremely not ok. Regardless of the result. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't. I did exactly what you wanted. I helped."

"Right now, we are talking about the means, not the ends."

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his hair. This was going to be hopeless. "Does it matter? Really?"

"Yes! Really! That was devastating, Sherlock."

"I thought all the raping and murdering were rather more devastating…"

"Oh shut up, for God's sake, shut up!" John was covering his face with his hands again. He took a deep breath and raised his head. "Look. Efficiency can be very, very painful. Try to remember that."

Sherlock shrugged. Remembering wasn't the problem. He just didn't see where the traps lay. He saw everything but that. "I'll try," he said, to please John, but he knew trying was never good enough.

"Good. And the third thing. Thank you. I know you didn't do that for Alyssa Turner. You did it for me."

"Don't know what you mean," Sherlock grumbled. "I didn't do anything except solve a case, and I certainly didn't do that for you."

"You threw a case."

"It's not like I've never lied to Lestrade before." John winced, and Sherlock remembered that he was supposed to be on his best behavior for this case, John had probably promised to keep him in line or some such rubbish, and now they were handing over a false confession. John would lose sleep over this. But it wouldn't bother Sherlock.

"You made Anderson _right_."

Sherlock frowned at his mobile. This bothered him. So much that he was embarrassed at how it twisted and burned in his stomach. The idea of Anderson believing he was right, thinking that he'd actually beat Sherlock at his own game, and all the Yarders laughing, and it wasn't just an idea, he himself had made it reality, and he was going to have to face that reality again and again. He'd elevated the stupidest man in London above himself.

He knew pride make him vulnerable. They'd been telling him that his whole life. _Pride goeth before a fall,_ Mycroft would say. But he had fallen, and found that pride kept going afterward too. He was an idiot for caring, but he couldn't stop it, could only push against it, crushing the thought of how Anderson would tell this story over and over until it became fact.

"And you put your reputation on the line. If she changes her mind…"

"She won't."

"No. I think she won't." John licked his lips. Sherlock could see he was thinking about tea, wondering exactly how rude it would be under the circumstances to help himself to a cup. Too rude, apparently, because he settled back into his chair. Fifty-five minutes till we call Lestrade, at least fifteen minutes till he arrives, five to ten minutes to bring him up to speed, then thirty to forty minutes to get home and that's in good traffic. At least two hours until your next cuppa, John. You asked for it.

"Well anyway," John continued. "It means a lot to me."

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement and returned his attention to his mobile.

"She didn't tell… Harry, I mean… because Dad told her if she did, he'd… kill me. I'm sure that seemed believable to her. He'd gotten close enough before. See, even then she was protecting me. You wouldn't know it now, but she always did. When we were kids, she always was protecting me. And I never could protect her."

Sherlock looked up at John's face and found it looking helpless and weak. He couldn't stand it. "You protect _me_," he said.

"You see that now, do you?" He sucked on his teeth and stared at the wall behind Sherlock's head. "Well, I used to. I have done. I do what I can."

There was a sorrow and a distance in John's eyes that Sherlock was not accustomed to and did not like. He was relieved to have a project, a goal to fixate on. The study of making John smile was an intriguing one. On the one hand, it was laughably easy. Almost anyone could do it. Literally, random strangers on the street could achieve it with no effort to speak of. On the other hand, it was surprisingly elusive. He could suddenly become sad or depressed or angry – granted, where Sherlock was involved, it was nearly always anger – and then making him smile was a challenge that required strategy, imagination, and a fully stocked toolbox.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his lips and considered.

"Your mother," Sherlock said, breaking into the silence so suddenly that John started in his chair. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"What about her?"

"Exactly. Tell me something about her."

"Why?" His suspicion was unabated.

"Because I want to know, obviously."

John raised his eyebrows. It wasn't a smile, but it was in the right direction. "Um… Well, she was born in Edinburgh. They moved to London when she was thirteen."

"I already knew that. Something new, something good."

"You did? I don't think I ever…? Ok." John tipped his head back as if he might see her gazing down from the kitchen ceiling. "She had a wicked sense of humor. She had a way of giving someone an insult or a compliment so they wouldn't realize until hours later what she'd really said." His lip twitched. "You'd have liked that about her. Though I'm not so sure she'd have liked you." And there it was, a fine specimen of a John Watson smile. Sherlock felt the reward center of his brain light up and he smiled back.

"She was musical too. She had a gorgeous singing voice. Harry and I inherited our dad's musical talent. That is, none. But Mum could sing. She sang all the time. Especially when she was working on something, or when she was happy. She sang a lot more after we moved back to London."

Sherlock hummed a slow, childlike melody in G major and watched John's eyes widen in amazement.

"How'd you know?" he asked.

"You know how to cook three things. A passable curry, decent pancakes, and a beef stew that is actually quite good and that you learned from your mother. You've made the stew twice since we've lived together, and both times, you were humming that song. What's it called?"

"Wild Horses," John answered, shaking his head. "She used to sing that all the time."

Sherlock was pulling YouTube up on his mobile. "Hm. There it is." The opening guitar chords tumbled out of the tinny speakers. "I detest popular music."

"I know."

Sherlock listened to the first verse and turned it off. "Simple. I'll play it on the violin when we get home."

A second smile – better than the first because this one glowed with surprise – spread across John's face. "I'd like that," he said.

"Yes, obviously. That is the point."

After a minute, John cocked his head to one side and asked, "Tell me something about your mother?"

Sherlock turned to look outside, where a light rain was beginning to fall. The leaves of an ash tree next to the window trembled.

He smelled Chanel No. 5 and jasmine tea. He felt long, thin fingers firmly wiping the gravel and mud off a cut on his knee and wrapping his own small hand around the neck of his first violin. He heard the trills of piano keys elicited by those fingers, and a clear, precise voice reciting Rimbaud and Valéry. He saw shoes that always matched the handbag, endless stacks of books, closed doors, and gray eyes that were generally flat and locked away somewhere far beyond his reach but that sometimes flashed metallic with anger or clouded dark with disappointment, or that very occasionally turned the exact color of London's summer rain with affection or paled into icy pools with fear.

He was silent.

It was something he'd learned from his mother. Data is potent. Details matter. There is nothing as dangerous as a fact.


End file.
